'I'm sorry, Shakkar, but this all sounds very odd to me. There's very little I can do about it, in any case.'
'You could attempt to contact Lord Grimm with Telepathy,” the demon growled.
Dalquist shrugged. “I could, but only if you can tell me where he is. It would be good to sort out this muddle. However, I can tell you with reasonable certainty that he isn't on any Quest as far as I know. Grimm hasn't even been back to the House since he went to High Lodge. Whatever he is doing is most likely his own idea. So do you have any idea of Questor Grimm's location?'
'He is somewhere in the region of Yoren,” the demon said.'We thought you might be able to locate him and advise him.'
'I need rather more precise directions than that, Shakkar!” Dalquist laughed. “I don't know anything about the area, I've never been there, and I can't cast such a potent spell in a wide arc.'
'I do not know exactly where Lord Grimm is, Questor!” Shakkar bared his long fangs in an expression Dalquist could not read. “What I do know is that Lady Drexelica may be in danger from a foul, evil witch. Do you mean to tell me that you will not help your best friend in this regard?'
Dalquist's mind spun, as fragments of memories whirled through his head. He remembered visiting the Prioress’ apartments at High Lodge. Some sort of confrontation… no, no, NO!
'Prioress Lizaveta is a charming, harmless old lady!” he shouted. “Yes, she's a witch; what does that have to do with anything? I'll thank you to take your pathetic little suspicions and conspiracy theories elsewhere!'
Shakkar growled, and raised a single, huge, clawed hand.
'Don't, Shakkar.” Dalquist brought Shakhmat into view. “I respect you, but you'll be taking a big risk if you try to threaten me. Don't do it.'
Despite his calm demeanour, the mage struggled with strange, conflicting emotions. What the hell's going on here? he raved inside his head. Pain seized his brain in an iron grip, and he almost howled in agony.
'I won't listen to you, Shakkar! Go back to Crar.'
In a more conciliatory voice, he continued, “I'm sure it's just some minor misunderstanding. Just go back home, and I'm sure Grimm and Drexelica will be waiting for you. Goodbye, Shakkar.'
He turned on his heel and strode back inside the House. Something seemed wrong, but he could not say what it had been. His head thrummed and ached, and he thought that an early night might be in order.
Shakkar felt numb; if he had one ally of whose aid he had felt sure, it was Questor Dalquist. For the first time in his life, he had requested aid from a trusted and respected mortal, and that request had been thrown back in his face.
'Some friend,” Erik observed. “He didn't even listen, Lord Seneschal. So what do we do now?'
'We fly, Sergeant.” The demon opened his bat-like wings. “I have not done this for some time, but I suspect that you will prove little encumbrance to me. I can fly faster than a horse can trot, and we will not be slowed down by hills or poor terrain.
'We go to Yoren, to see if we can obtain any information about either Lord Grimm's or Prioress Lizaveta's whereabouts. It is plain that we shall receive no help here. Take what equipment you need from the cart.'
The Sergeant nodded. “I can't pretend I'm overjoyed at the prospect of dangling from your claws, hundreds of feet in the air, but we may well be able to catch up with Lord Grimm before he reaches the Priory, and warn him.
'Just don't let go of me, Lord Seneschal!'
Slashing his arms back and forth, the demon made a path for the soldier through the dense, thorny undergrowth; the thorns made little impression on his grey, leathery skin.
The cart was where they had left it, in a wide, circular clearing. The Sergeant shucked his disguise and donned his green uniform. He then began to clip various strange items to convenient straps on the tunic.
'What are you attaching to those bands, Sergeant?'
Erik smiled. “The bands are called ‘webbing', Lord Seneschal. I'm just getting some ammo, grenades, full canteens, food and so on. If we are going into combat, I want to be ready for it.'
Shakkar felt a little surprised: until now, he had regarded Erik as an easy-going and rather lacklustre individual, but the prospect of violence and danger seemed to enthuse the man. Humans are strange, indeed!
'I hope we'll see a little bit of action,” the soldier said, hefting a large pack onto his shoulders. “It's what I've trained for, not policing arguing neighbours and bar-room brawls.'
Shakkar eyed the growing mass of Erik's armoury with some misgivings. “I am strong, but my strength is not inexhaustible, Sergeant! How much does all that equipment weigh?'
'Eighty to a hundred pounds, I suppose, Lord Seneschal,” the Sergeant hazarded. “No more than a hundred and twenty. I weigh about twelve stone: one hundred and seventy pounds or so. Is that too much for you?'
Shakkar thought back to his miserable confinement on Starmor's punishment pillar. From time to time, the late Baron of Crar had seen fit to send him the occasional miserable miscreant for his delectation, and a few of the fatter morsels-people!, he reminded himself, with some distaste-had probably weighed close to three hundred pounds. Even in his half-starved condition, he had found it easy to hoist the struggling, screaming individuals into the air, baring his fangs and…
The demon slammed down mental shutters on these increasingly disturbing memories.
'I should be able to carry you, Sergeant, with or without your weaponry. Your… webbing should provide good purchase for my talons. Are you ready?'
'Not quite, Lord Seneschal,” Erik replied, fiddling with the horses’ traces.
'What are you doing, Sergeant? I cannot possibly take both you and a horse!'
'I'm just letting the horses go, Lord Seneschal. It'd be a pity to let them starve. Go on, nag, get out of here!” The soldier swatted one of the horses on the rump and it skittered away, followed by its equine companion.
Shakkar felt even more confused. He knew that, for some mortals at least, horsemeat was considered a delicacy. For others, the animals were a merchantable commodity and no more. And yet this strange mortal, whose trade was death, seemed concerned for the wellbeing of these creatures.
'Those horses may be worth a lot of money, Sergeant,” he said, as the glossy, muscular horses ambled away.
'Dead ones won't, Lord Seneschal. Perhaps someone'll get some use out of them, and good luck to him, but I won't have a pair of fine horses starving to death on my conscience.
'There; I'm ready now.'
Shakkar took hold of the Sergeant's webbing and gave it an experimental tug. It seemed strong enough to hold him.
Spreading his wings in the clearing, the demon began to beat them with strong, rhythmic strokes, and he lofted into the air with the Sergeant dangling below him.
As he dragged himself higher into the sky and swooped south-eastwards, he wondered again about Erik's apparent altruistic feelings towards the animals and revised his opinion about the human race: they were not just strange, but mad as well.
Dalquist returned to his marking, but his attention began to wander.
He had met the old Prioress only once, and his memories of the meeting were fuzzy, yet favourable; however, that did not explain his savage, offhand, uncharacteristic dismissal of Shakkar's request for help. The Questor knew he had reacted just as Grimm had when ensorcelled. He put down his pen and pondered, staring at Shakhmat, with its seven gold rings: the symbol of his status as a Guild Mage.
Am I just tired and frustrated? I've been yearning for a Quest for months; is that it? Am I just getting jaded? Grimm's my friend and a brother mage. My first thoughts should have been for him, yet I just rejected Shakkar's words out of hand when he implicated Lizaveta-just like Grimm leapt to Thorn's defence when I implied the Prelate had been behind his brutal Ordeal.
Something very strange is happening here. One thing I do know is that Lizaveta is a witch-could she be working some Geomantic magic on me right now? What did happen to me in the Prioress’ room? The memories
